


Save Me Some Sunshine

by grease_monkey_goddess



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Cameos, Depression, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Other, Rags to Riches, Recreational Drug Use, competent!prompto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 09:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grease_monkey_goddess/pseuds/grease_monkey_goddess
Summary: Prompto works 3 jobs to pay the bills, but a stroke of luck lands him his dream job as an assistant to a famous sports and fashion photographer.  When his new boss turns out to be a washed up drunk with a bad reputation, and last minute job lands on his desk, Prompto is launched into the crazy world of celebrity, pretty people, excess, and maybe even the one thing he's been looking for all his life.Featuring cameo appearances by other final fantasy series characters.





	Save Me Some Sunshine

 

Prompto Argentum stared at the placard beside the doorbell of number 311 Yevon street and compared it to the slip of paper in his hand. There was no name next to the unit like the others. Number 309 was a law firm. Number 201 was a real estate office.

Number 311 was empty.

Was he in the wrong place?

And, yeah, maybe this job was a little too good to be true. The guy had basically hired him over the phone without an in-person interview as an assistant to a well known blitzball star turned sports and fashion photographer. The job paid more than all three of his other jobs combined, and anyway, any photographer worth his salt would be over the moon to work with Jecht.

Maybe it was all just a big joke, but Prompto, being the photography nerd he was totally got what an opportunity it would be to work with a guy with that much clout.

Now, he was second guessing himself. What if it was a scam? Or some cruel practical joke?

His finger hovered over the bell and he chewed his lip.

To ring, or not to ring. That was the question.

If it turned out to be a hoax, all he had to do was walk away. He'd be disappointed, but Prompto was no stranger to life's frequent let-downs. If it was just a scam, he'd go home, feel sorry for himself for the rest of the day, then regroup, report to his busboy job, and keep looking for something better.

He took a deep breath and pushed the button. It made a dull buzzing noise, but nothing happened. He tried again.

Nothing.

Dejected, Prompto hitched the strap of his camera bag over his shoulder and turned away from the door.

“Shouldn't have gotten my hopes up,” he said to himself. “Too good to be true.”

“Waddaya want?!” a gravelly, slurred, and tinny voice called through the speaker box behind him. “Go away!”

Prompto spun around.

“I'm looking for Jecht?” Prompto said. “I'm supposed to be his new assistant?”

“Yea? Then you're fuckin' late,” the voice said. “Get your ass upstairs.”

“I would but... the door's locked.”

The voice muttered something intelligible, but the door buzzed and Prompto threw it open. He dashed up the three flights of stairs to the office marked “311” and knocked.

“Iss open.”

Prompto took a breath to steady himself, then opened the door.

The office was not what he was expecting. There was a single desk littered with empty bottles to the right of the door. To the left, action stills hung in simple black frames that were coated in dust. Sheets of crumpled paper spilled across the floor. Draped over a ratty couch were articles of clothing that looked like they could use a wash.

Behind the desk a shirtless, heavily tattooed man sat slumped over the blotter, his long hair stringy and greasy. He clutched a bottle of alcohol in his fist and didn't bother to look up when Prompto closed the door.

“Heyaz. I'm Prompto,” he said.

“I need some goddamn coffee.”

“I can make you some, dude,” he said, eager to get started. “Just point me to it!”

Jecht, or the man he assumed was Jecht waved vaguely to the left.

Prompto glanced around the dirty office and located a dusty, crud-covered coffee pot on the windowsill. He went to it and removed the pot. Inside, old coffee sloshed against the glass. Dots of greenish-white mold floated on the surface. He tried not to gag.

This was not what he expected, but he went with it and threw himself into the task of preparing coffee for his new, likely drunk, boss.

It took some effort. The basket that held the grounds was full of mold, too. He scrubbed out both in the sink in the small, filthy bathroom, and filled the pot with fresh water.

He hoped the scent of coffee brewing would wake the man up, but Jecht stayed slumped against the desk, drooling and snoring and occasionally twitching. For a minute, Prompto stood there, unsure of what to do.

Should he cut his losses or stick it out and see?

This job paid a lot. Sure, the place was a pit, but it wasn't like busing tables and tearing down the kitchen after dinner service was any less disgusting.

Jecht muttered a curse in his sleep, and Prompto, ever the optimist, decided it couldn't hurt to give it one day before he gave up.

While he waited for the coffee to finish brewing, Prompto set about tidying up the mess around him. He collected the paper from the floor, straightened the ones that looked important and shoved the ones that didn't into a fresh trash bag, then poked around in the closet to see if there were any cleaning supplies.

He found glass cleaner and bleach under the bathroom sink and scrubbed the film of crud off the toilet and sink, cleaned the mirror, emptied the trash, picked the empty toilet paper rolls up off the floor, and wiped down fingerprint smudged door and knob. It wasn't perfectly clean, but good enough to give the appearance of clean.

Jecht was still asleep when he finished cleaning the bathroom. The coffee had finished brewing 30 minutes ago. Prompto washed out a grimy mug, filled it to the brim, and sat it before his new boss. Jecht didn't move.

Prompto sighed and continued his cleaning. He tossed empty vodka bottles and half-eaten take-out containers that were so old, he couldn't tell what they once were. It was only when Prompto attempted to remove the vodka from Jecht's hand that Jecht opened his eyes.

“Paws off, shithead,” Jecht growled.

“Sorry, sir,” Prompto said. “I didn't want you to spill it.”

Jecht sat up, yawned, and eyed Prompto.

“That would be a goddamned tragedy,” Jecht said.

“There's coffee,” Prompto said, unsure of what else he could say.

Jecht took the mug Prompto left on the desk an drank half of it. He scowled and set it back down.

“That tastes like shit,” he said. “Who the hell taught you to make coffee?”

“I...”

Jecht didn't wait for an answer. He poured vodka into the coffee, picked up the mug and finished it in one gulp.

“That's better,” he said. He looked around the room. “Where the fuck did my stuff go?”

“What stuff?” Prompto asked. “I didn't touch anything important. I don't think.”

“You cleaned.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn't tell you to clean.”

“I'm sorry?” Prompto said, genuinely confused why he'd be mad about that. The place was disgusting. “Do you... want me to put the trash back where I found it?”

Jecht's face turned red. Prompto cringed and prepared to be fired.

Then, Jecht laughed.

“Fuck it. Wasn't important anyway.”

Prompto relaxed. A little. He wasn't sure what he was doing here anymore. This guy was not at all what he expected him to be.

Jecht dug through his pocket and tossed a handful of cash on the desk.

“Do me a favor, Assistant,” he said. “There's a liquor store on the corner. Go get me a bottle of this.”

Prompto glanced at the clock.

“It's nine in the morning.”

“So?”

“They're not open yet. Blue laws.”

“Aw, for fuck's sake,” Jecht muttered. “You're going to be as useless as the last one.”

He swallowed a mouthful of vodka, wiped his dirty face with the back of his hand and set the bottle aside. Maybe this was why Prompto was hired, sight unseen, without an interview.

“Get me some vodka,” Jecht said. “Don't come back until you have some.”

Prompto didn't know why he took the money, or why he didn't just go home, but he found himself standing outside the liquor store, waiting for it to open.

He leaned against the wall beside the door, Jecht's money clutched tight in his fist and thought of all the potential this job had. Not the filthy office or the drunkard upstairs, but the possibility of meeting famous, influential people who might see his own work and book him for a job.

It was his dream, after all, to be a professional photographer. He wanted to be the guy designers and advertisers thought of when they needed someone to photograph a new product or ad campaign or clothing line. If this job panned out, he could get his foot in the door.

Or so he thought. It looked as though Jecht's best days were behind him. His phone hadn't rung once while Prompto was in his office.

He lingered outside the store until it opened at ten, bought the liquor, and went back to the office. Jecht lay on the couch now, sprawled out with his feet propped up on the arm rest. He was awake, staring at a photograph of himself with a young, deeply tanned blond boy.

“You close to your parents, kid?”

Prompto shook his head. He didn't have parents, unless he counted the foster family that kicked him out at eighteen to fend for himself with almost no money and nowhere to go.

“Ungrateful brat,” Jecht said. “They gave you everything, including your life, you little shit. You should bow down and thank them for that.”

Prompto shifted uncomfortably.

“Pick up the phone and call your family, kid,” Jecht said. “Now. Tell 'em you love 'em. I wanna hear the gratitude.”

“I... I don't have a family,” Prompto said.

“Disowned them, eh,” Jecht said bitterly. “Just like my boy did me...”

The boy in the photo must be his son. Prompto felt an equal mixture of sympathy and anger. This guy didn't know him well enough to judge him, and Prompto didn't know Jecht's situation.

“Bet you're a crybaby, just like he is.”

Anger won out.

“My family abandoned me when I was a year old,” Prompto said hotly. “So whatever your glitch is, don't take it out on me, dude.”

Jecht's eyes slid toward Prompto and he sighed heavily.

“A throwaway, huh?” Jecht said. “Sorry, kid.”

“Yeah, me too,” Prompto said. “Not to change the subject, but... what exactly am I doing here? Kinda looks to me like you need a maid, not an assistant.”

Jecht sat up and reached for the fresh bottle of vodka still in Prompto's hand. He twisted the cap off and swallowed down three gulps, then let it dangle in his grip while he stared at the floor.

“I ain't what I used to be, but I'm still the best,” Jecht said. “People still talk about the Jecht Shot, you know? I just need... someone... to keep me on the straight and narrow. I still get lotsa calls about jobs, but then I get drunk and forget... it's your job to make sure I don't.”

 

 

  
Prompto went home to his tiny closet of an apartment and sat on the couch that doubled as a bed for almost an hour debating whether or not he should go back.

It seemed like a lot, being responsible for a talented drunk who couldn't even clean up after himself. Even now, he wasn't sure what the job really entailed. Was he supposed to refuse to buy the man liquor? Be his housekeeper and babysitter? Where were the photography jobs the man mentioned on the phone?

Prompto sneaked a look a Jecht's planner before he left for the day. If it was to be believed, his last job was six months ago, and Prompto had no way of knowing whether he made it there or not, and if he did, whether or not Jecht managed a decent shot.

His book was full of names and numbers Prompto recognized, famous designers and fashion people. With a client list like that, Jecht's phone should have been ringing off the hook, but it wasn't. The only call he took all day was a telemarketer pushing a time-share property.

When he realized he'd been sitting there too long, he got up and changed into his uniform and went to work cleaning tables at the sports bar in the same disillusioned daze of a man who thought he'd escaped prison, only to find another set of bars.

It served him right, to hope the hard times were behind him. Still, he put on a smile and complimented the waitresses and joked around with the kitchen staff and the bartender as he always did. No need to let them see his disappointment.

Dead tired, he returned home after two in the morning, stripped off his stained uniform and climbed into the shower to wash off the scent of cigarette smoke and fried food.

He didn't sleep. Not for a while.

This was not the life he wanted for himself. He hated this tiny apartment and he hated never having money for the things he needed, even with three jobs and a strong determination not to end up on the street. He hated never getting days off and the way his feet ached so bad in the morning, he could barely walk.

He wanted more. Better.

But did he deserve it? Or was he just reaching for stars that were too far away to ever touch?

His alarm went off at 5:30 and he reluctantly sat up. He had a choice to make.

Go deliver papers, then head over to the courier office and earn less than half of what he was worth for a day's work, or give it another shot?

Over coffee, he Moogle searched Jecht, something he should have done before he took the job.

As he expected, the more recent news and gossip was that Jecht was a washed-up has-been who would never work in this town again. He'd been drunk on shoots, was reportedly very difficult to work with, and he'd gotten into a fist fight with a designer named Kefka, leading to an ongoing and very public feud between the two.

What he didn't expect was the article about Jecht's son, a rising blitzball star who refused to acknowledge his father as a role model or mentor. Word was, they stopped speaking when Tidus was recruited by the Besaid Aurochs at the age of sixteen.

The two were still estranged when Tidus drowned at 18 in a training accident.

“Oh, man,” Prompto said. “That sucks.”

It explained so much.

Sounded like the guy needed someone to cut him a break as bad as Prompto did.

Prompto decided right then and there to give Jecht another chance.

 

  
The first three days, Prompto spent cleaning the office until it was immaculate. Then, he organized it. He found dozens of amazing photos crammed into a binder in the closet and he sat on the floor looking at them one by one.

A lot of them were old, but they were still beautiful and probably very valuable. Among them were candids of celebrities and models and sports superstars, and a whole bunch of things the scandal sheets and magazines would pay good money to print.

The guy had talent, but he was wasting it. Prompto recognized the signs of a deep depression in the man, but he was no doctor. He couldn't fix what was wrong with Jecht, and he wasn't sure if anyone could.

Grief was a tricky and powerful thing. Prompto would know. For the better part of his life, he mourned the parents that he didn't have, the families that found him lacking, and the potential friends he never had.

Jecht alternately ranted and lamented the boy's very existence, but he wouldn't explain what went wrong or why. He never mentioned his death and Prompto couldn't ask.

Prompto was curious, but he was also questioning his decision to stick with this. This job seemed temporary at best and his chances of making industry contacts looked less and less likely by the hour.

The first time the phone actually did ring, Prompto nearly jumped out of his own skin. The shrill but muffled ring cut through the silence and he picked it up, took a deep breath and greeted the caller.

“Jecht Photography, how can I help you?”

“Loqi Tummelt, of Nox Fleuret Fashions,” a haughty voice said. “We've had a a last minute cancellation and are in dire need of a photographer for a shoot this afternoon.”

Prompto perked up, reached over and shoved Jecht's shoulder. Jecht grunted, gave him the finger, and resumed snoring.

“Uhhhh, let me check his schedule,” Prompto said.

“Please. We both know his schedule is clear. I wouldn't even be calling if we weren't desperate.”

“Ouch, dude,” Prompto said. “Don't mince your words or anything.”

“Can he make it or not?”

“Yeah,” Prompto said. “He'll be there.”


End file.
